


Something About Flamingos

by Plumbeo



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 2000s, Drunkenness, Fluff, Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Making Up, they're not together yet but they're getting there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-29 20:17:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18301232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plumbeo/pseuds/Plumbeo
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley have a petty, stupid, pointless fight. After four days of not talking to each other, the angel decides to break the silence - in an equally stupid way.Based onthisTumblr post.





	Something About Flamingos

**Author's Note:**

> Huge, enormous thanks to @ratkingbrady on Tumblr for proof reading this silly thing <3

Aziraphale couldn’t even remember what the fight with Crowley had been about. Wine was consumed  _ —  _ a  _ lot _ of wine, the kind of quantity that would put a normal human being in a alcohol-induced coma  _ twice —  _ of that he was sure, but the rest was a very foggy and  _ very _ messy discussion concerning, at times, politics, French architecture, flamingos or the Vatican.

Knowing them, the angel wouldn’t be surprised to discover the fight had been about flamingos all along.

He had a vague memory of Crowley getting up from his chair and drunkenly muttering something incomprehensible as he attempted to put his sunglasses back on, without stabbing himself in the eye. Shortly later, he had stormed out of the bookshop.

Aziraphale angrily drank the rest of the wine by himself, then passed out before he could sober himself up. He woke up the next morning with a terrible headache and a confused and vague sense of anger and sadness, doubled by the fact that he couldn’t remember what had happened the night before. Tripled by the awful sensation of being alone.

A sensation that now, four days later, was completely consuming him. For the past ten years, after the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t, he and Crowley hadn’t really passed a single day without seeing, or hearing from, each other. Thinking back on their past, the angel couldn’t fathom how there had been a time where they could go even  _ decades _ without seeing one another.

Of course, the nature of their relationship was different, back then. It’s not like it was that much different now, mind you, but… a couple of years back they had realized, much to their own astonishment, that they felt the same way about each other. Nothing was ever really said out loud, but they  _ understood _ . That could've been it, had they felt freer and braver, but they made the unspoken decision that it was best to proceed slowly.

The road to finally turn their… whatever it was they currently were, into something  _ really _ different, was long. And it needed to be walked carefully. They had basically just started venturing into it, and Aziraphale didn’t want that process to stop for a stupid, petty thing that he didn’t even remember happened.

So, after four days, at five in the afternoon, he decided to put a stop to the agonizing silence between the two of them.

With a simple thought, the angel miracled a small and specific perfume bottle into his hands and, as carefully as ever, placed it on the side table next to his favourite armchair.

“I'm holding you hostage for the greater good,” he said to the bottle, “but don’t worry, you're completely safe.” [1]

He went to get a fresh cup of tea from the kitchen, picked up a random book from his personal library on his way back, sat down, and smiled at the dark bottle next to him. He was glad the bookshop’s old phone had made its way to the table on its own. He kept his book open with a hand and held the tea with the other.

And he waited. 

He glanced at the phone every now and then, as if he could will it to ring on command. 

He sipped his tea, and waited.

Almost an hour had passed, before the phone finally rang.

It came sooner than Aziraphale expected, but he surely wasn’t going to complain. He slowly inhaled, and made the hard decision to let it ring three times before picking up. When the third ring had ceased, the movement to pick up the receiver was so quick he almost pushed the whole phone off the table.

“Hello?” he said, as composed as ever.

_ “Did you steal my cologne?”  _ Crowley asked.

The instant the familiar voice reached his ear, a soft smile spread on the angel’s features. He let out the breath he was holding, but quickly replaced his fond expression with a more clueless and serious one, as if the demon could see him.

Yes, he didn’t remember what the fight had been about, but he wasn’t going to say it. He was going to stand his ground. Just in case the argument had ended with the demon being wrong and him being right. [2]

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, leaning back on the armchair.

On the other end, Crowley sighed.  _ “Caron’s  _ Pour Un Homme _. I know you have it.” _

“Oh, that!” Aziraphale picked up the small bottle from the side table, and carefully passed it between his fingers. “I do  _ have _ it, but I certainly didn’t  _ steal _ it.”

Crowley hummed.  _ “So what do they call ‘taking another person’s property without their permission’ these days?” _

“Well, that’s  _ hardly _ what happened.”

_ “Oh really?” _

“I gave that small thing to you a while ago, I simply thought it was time to take it back,” he diplomatically lied, putting the bottle back down on the table.

_ “You awful, awful liar!”  _ Crowley exclaimed, and Aziraphale could hear the hint of a smile in his voice.  _ “I bought it myself. I was among the first ones to own it in 1934.” _

“Hm, I’m quite sure you’re wrong,” he, once again, lied.

The angel knew he was right, and the demon knew he knew he was right. The perfume Aziraphale had gifted Crowley actually came out ten years before the one he was currently holding hostage in his hand, and it was Lanvin’s  _ My Sin _ . It was a women’s fragrance, but neither one of them ever cared about those made-up concepts and barriers. How could they, really?

The angel had bought it because, well, he found the name quite funny and fitting for the demon. So he brought it with him during one of their usual outings near St. James’ duck pond, and gave it to his friend. 

And Crowley had found it funny too  _ — _ at first. But his small laugh died down the more he stared at the name, and a slight blush started spreading on his cheeks. Only then, Aziraphale realized the deeper meaning that that name could take under their… circumstances.  _ My _ sin. My  _ sin _ . Oh,  _ Christ _ , that was almost romantic, wasn’t it?

He would’ve cleared his throat, but doing so would’ve been admitting that something was awkward, so he just quickly shrugged himself out of his own petrified state and simply said, “I thought it was funny,” he smiled, and threw some more bread at the duck.

Crowley finally looked up at him, closed his slightly gaping mouth and nodded once. “It is,” he said, returning the smile. He looked as pleased as he could, though the angel felt like it was far from happy. “Thank you, angel. I really like it,” he concluded, sincerely.

Aziraphale had actually thought about stea-  _ taking _ that one, instead of the  _ Pour Un Homme _ , but decided against it. They might not have expressed it, even after almost eighty years, but they both knew that old thing meant something important. Taking it away from Crowley would’ve been just too much.

_ “Hm-mh. Sure,  _ I’m _ wrong,” _ Crowley’s voice came, shaking the angel out of his thoughts.  _ “Listen, I… I get you’re still mad at me,”  _ he continued, sounding unsure.  _ “I guess I went a bit too far with the whole flamingos thing, whatever, but-“ _

Aziraphale closed his eyes and slowly pinched the bridge of his nose. Vague memories came back to him. So it  _ was _ about the flamingos. He shook his head.  _ Unbelievable _ . He wondered how badly the argument had gone for Crowley not to call him  _ once _ in four days. Had he been mean to the poor dear? All because of stupid, pink, ugly flamingos? He felt bad.

_ “- doesn’t the Bible say something against lying and stealing?”  _ Crowley asked.

Well, Aziraphale didn’t feel bad anymore. Oh, the  _ courage  _ this man-shaped demon had, using God’s own words against him.

“It certainly doesn’t say anything against stealing from a demon that thinks flamingos really only have the one leg!” he snapped.

He wasn’t even sure that was the argument’s point at all, but he remembered some small pieces of conversation as well as a clear image of Crowley trying to balance himself on a single foot. Connecting the dots, and considering the absurdity of it all, it didn’t seem too far-fetched to think that that had actually  _ been _ the point.

_ “It — Oh! So you admit you  _ stole _ it from me!” _

Ah, he had slipped. “You never even use it anyway,” he muttered, changing tone completely. He picked up his cup of tea, which had refilled itself multiple times in the past hour, and brought it to his lips.

_ “And how would you know that?”  _ the demon asked. “ _ Have you been smelling me?”  _ he continued after a moment, smugness radiating from his voice.

The angel sighed. Crowley knew he had. It hadn’t been exactly on purpose, but… well.

It had happened a few weeks before, on a wine-fueled movie night in the demon’s flat. After two bottles of red, Aziraphale experienced one of his rare moments of tiredness and, without even thinking about it, fell mostly unconscious against Crowley’s tensed shoulder. The volume of the highly inaccurate historical movie about Egypt was somehow lowered down.

“You, er, you alright there?” the demon had asked after a minute, in a voice far too sober for someone who had just drank two bottles of wine.

“Hm,” Aziraphale vaguely replied, almost completely asleep. He took a deep breath and adjusted himself better against his friend. “Y’smell nice,” he muttered.

Crowley let out a long and soft laugh at that, finally relaxing his body. The vibrations lulled the oblivious angel into a deeper sleep. Aziraphale thought he felt a small pressure on the top of his head, at some point, but fell completely unconscious before he could inquire any further.

When he woke up five hours later, still propped up against Crowley’s side and covered with a blanket that hadn’t been there the night before, the demon smiled wickedly at him. “Good morning,” he greeted, “thank you for saying I smell good.”

Aziraphale felt embarrassment creep on his face as he remembered his little confession, but refused to admit anything. Crowley had loved it, and kept slipping small reminders of it in every conversation they had in the following weeks, just to see his friend get flustered and lie.

And he still wasn't done with it, apparently.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I know it because you bought it seventy years ago and the bottle’s still almost full,” he analyzed, not giving into the demon’s bait.

_ “Hmm-mh.” _

“You can’t miss something you use so rarely, anyway,” the angel said.

Crowley chuckled.  _ “That’s still not a good excuse for stealing, but tell me -“ _

“Eh, that’s debatable.”

_ “- what are the kind of things that  _ can _ be missed, then?” _

Aziraphale quieted down for a while. The cup of tea that he was about to bring to his lips was abruptly stopped half-way there, then slowly lowered back on the table. Thinking back on the three lonesome and empty days he had just passed, the answer was pretty obvious. He wondered if Crowley had felt the same way. [3]

“You…” he started, and that could've just been it, “you miss the things that you use everyday,” he tried to hide a shaky breath behind a sniff.

“Or — well, not  _ use _ , rather  _ live _ . Things you see, take care of, talk to, or…” he chuckled. He couldn’t believe he was about to bring back something he had just managed to avoid, just for the chance of being understood. “Or even  _ smell _ ,” he said.

He could almost hear Crowley smirk through the phone.

“Those are the things you…”  _ love _ , he thought, “...miss,” he said.

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. For a second, the angel feared he had said the L word out loud. 

_ “Yeah, I — you, er… you really miss those ones,”  _ the demon finally agreed, clearing his voice.

Through the phone, Aziraphale could hear a rumor that sounded awfully close to someone biting on their nails. He hated Crowley's awful habit, but given the current stress-inducing circumstances, it was understandable.  [4]

_ “You miss them even if they're only gone for a short while,”  _ the demon added, quieter, as if he was scared of being heard. Or understood.

“Yes,” Aziraphale quickly replied. “Yes. Even for a short while.”

_ “You — you miss them quite terribly, actually,”  _ Crowley choked out.

“You do indeed.”

_ “Right.” _

“Hm.”

Aziraphale’s heart hadn’t beaten that fast since the two of them had gone against Heaven and Hell, hand in hand, to protect the Earth — and their friends. And each other.

What they were saying, the  _ way _ they were saying it… it twisted something in the angel’s chest, but it wasn't painful. It was warm, and scared, and excited. It was bigger than anything else God had created, and he felt dizzy.

The road to “different” had just been shortened quite a lot. And —  _ great _ , now he was biting his own nails as well. The old lady at the nail salon was going to be seriously disappointed in him.

_ “Anyway,”  _ Crowley breathed out after a minute of total silence _ , “as I was saying, all of this still isn’t a good excuse for stealing, angel.” _

Aziraphale finally gave in, without feeling defeated in the slightest. “I guess not,” he said.

_ “So, can I get my cologne back?” _

The angel picked up the small bottle from the table. “Fine, I'll just miracle it back to you,” he said, about to simply  _ will _ the perfume back to its rightful place in the demon’s flat.

_ “Or, well, I was thinking that...”  _ Crowley quickly interjected, making the angel stop in his tracks.  _ “You could keep it, and I could just… uh, pass by. To pick it up,”  _ he said, in a hopeful tone.

A small smile tugged at Aziraphale's lips.

_ “I mean, that is — only if you want to,”  _ the demon tried to shrug it off.

“I’d like that,” the angel instantly reassured him.

Apparently, it wasn't enough. Next thing he knew Crowley was babbling on the phone, with a higher voice than usual.

_ “Okay. Right, uh, I just — I wasn’t sure whether you still wanted a stupid demon like me inside your bookshop, or… Or not. For a while longer, at least. Er, I'd understand it, really, it's — ” _

“ _ My dear _ ,” Aziraphale cut him off. “I can assure you that, right now, I’d love nothing more than to have you here with me.”

_ “Oh. That’s, ah… Good.” _ Crowley all but choked out. Aziraphale’s smile only deepened.

After another moment of silence, Crowley inhaled sharply in an obvious attempt to pull himself back together.  _ “Actually, angel, that’s pretty damn convenient, since I’m already outside.” _

Aziraphale’s smile fell as confusion took over him. “Wait, you — you are?”

_ “Yeah, been here since I called you,”  _ he said, and his words were shortly followed by the unmistakable screech of the Bentley's old door being opened, and the chatter of Soho passers by suddenly swelled in the background of the call. 

_ “Do you… want to go to dinner? Sushi, maybe?” _

“Of course,” Aziraphale replied through his widening smile. “Be right there, my dear.”

He put the receiver down as quietly as possible, then got up so fast he almost tripped over his own feet. He hastily put his coat on and made a beeline for the door. He purposely left  _ Pour Un Homme  _ on the table, just in case his demon needed an excuse to stop by after dinner, and maybe stay for a while. He hoped he wasn’t going to need the excuse.

Once outside, the angel found a grinning Crowley leaning against the Bentley, cell phone in hand. The angel smiled as fondly as ever, and made his way to him. He didn't waste time locking the bookshop’s entrance. After all those years, the door knew how to do its job.

As soon as they were in front of each other, the demon pointed an accusatory finger at him.

“By the way,” Crowley said, “it wasn't me who said flamingos only have one leg. It was  _ you _ , angel.”

* * *

[1] Considering the treatment the poor plants in Crowley's flat received  _ daily _ , the small perfume really  _ was _ safer with him than with the demon.

[2] A chance that, if he was being completely, selfishly honest, seemed very plausible to him.

[3] He had.

[4] Nonetheless, he made a mental note to convince the demon to stop it, if he didn't want to be forced into going to the nail salon with him. Demons tempted, angels blackmailed.

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, I’m just saying that if you think they ended up breaking that goddamn bottle after they did the do on the armchair that same night, you’re probably not wrong.
> 
> Thank you for reading! This is the first fanfic I ever managed to finish c':  
> My Good Omens Tumblr sideblog is @azirafuck, if you want to stop by <3


End file.
